


All I Knew

by Raphaela_Crowley



Series: Heaven's Records [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Feels, Archangel Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Angst (Good Omens), Crowley Was an Archangel Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, No Slash, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Aziraphale and Crowley's Bodyswap (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28079103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley
Summary: Ever since Aziraphale got his records from Heaven, Crowley's known something he doesn't plan on telling the angel; namely the fact that Aziraphale was literally created to be his best friend.This just isn't something he feels comfortable sharing; or talking about at all, really. Not unless he's forced to.But what could force his hand?A break in and a rogue demon who's stumbled across Crowley's secret and seems to be playing his own game (and is currently in Aziraphale's bookshop, pretending to have a celestial connection to the unwitting principality)?Oh yeah, that'll do it.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Heaven's Records [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051034
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	All I Knew

**Author's Note:**

> Head's up: might not make sense to readers who haven't read my other fanfic in this series, "For The Record"

_All I Knew_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

_**Sequel to "For The Record"** _

Someone had disturbed his things.

Crowley paused before his high-backed chair and looked at the papers littered – _scattered_ – across the red marble tabletop. Slowly, he reached up and drew his sunglasses off his face.

Two emotions warred to take the primary space of his swelling feelings in that one, blood-draining moment.

He was angry.

Angry with himself – for leaving his portfolio out, for not locking it back up in the safe. Angry with whoever had been in here and gone through it – if they'd still been in his flat, which he could sense was not the case, he'd have made them sorry they'd ever entered.

And he was anxious.

What disturbed him the most was that a _human_ couldn't get in here – Crowley had made certain of that.

That certainty, coupled with his belief Hell would leave him alone – as, down there, they all believed he was immune to holy water and was transformed into some sort of 'native', undemonic being they had no name for, thanks to Aziraphale's no doubt stellar performance on his behalf – had made him lax.

That was why he'd thought it safe enough to leave the portfolio out in the open while he went for a brief drive in the Bentley.

"I don't bloody _believe_ this," Crowley muttered to himself; "more than six thousands years, I never even _looked_ at the damn thing – all that time, I only put it in the safe as an afterthought when I moved here... I've just found out... And now..." His voice cracked. " _Ugggh_."

Luckily there weren't many papers. Crowley had kept a low profile in Heaven, the fact that he'd been an archangel notwithstanding. Funny, though, he couldn't help thinking, how much _more_ it looked like with them all loose like this instead of joined together in their slim black file.

If he wasn't fretting – quietly going to pieces in the back of his mind – over who'd seen the contents of one particular page, who'd been in here to begin with touching his things, it wouldn't have mattered much to him.

He knew it wasn't Aziraphale.

Aziraphale had a key, for one thing, and he always told Crowley when he was coming by, for another. The principality was reliable like that. Moreover, he'd never have left the papers in a mess. The demon was always trying to get his friend to stop cleaning when he was here – irritably reminding him that the flat never got messy to begin with; it was just one of those things.

But some supernatural bastard – from one side or the other, and it hardly mattered which – had been in here.

And now they _knew_.

Knew what Crowley hadn't even told Aziraphale – what he'd decided, very resolutely, _not_ to tell him.

He began to gather the pages. One was missing. The one with his old name, followed by Aziraphale's listed as his assigned working partner. Of course. Of course it would be. Whoever was here had taken it with them. For what purpose, he didn't want to think about.

But they'd go to Aziraphale next. They might be with him already.

He picked up the phone and began, rapidly, to punch out the number so familiar those keys on the dial-pad were partially faded. "Come _on_ , angel," he growled as it rang thrice, each sharp ring making the demon shiver involuntarily at the potential underlying cause; " _pick up_."

"Ah – hello!"

Oh thank Go– _somebody_. The demon allowed himself a moment to exhale; he might not need to breathe, but he'd gotten used to it, as a general thing, and holding it in that long was uncomfortable – and, if he was being honest, sometimes gave him a nasty case of the hiccups. Luckily, he'd already had a scare big enough to ward them off. Aziraphale was frequently telling him that wasn't how it worked, that you couldn't _really_ have your hiccups scared away before you got them, but Crowley personally swore by the method as it had always worked for _him_.

"Aziraphale, it's _me_ – listen."

"Crowley! I'm very glad you telephoned – I've got some unexpected news."

Crowley was about to ask the angel to hold up a moment – he'd gladly hear his news after he warned him someone unsavoury, though he wasn't sure _who_ yet, might be turning up – only Aziraphale, cheerfully oblivious, kept on doggedly, too excited to hold it in.

"Do you remember the fallen archangel – the one I was supposed to work with before the rebellion? You told me you knew him in Hell, last time we talked about it?"

"Eeerrrr..." Crowley couldn't make a coherent noise – one that was a real word – come out of his throat. Except for a half syllable that sort of sounded like a 'yeah' following the first meaningless noise.

"Well, he's turned up – he's here at the bookshop."

No... No, no, no... This wasn't _happening_. "Wot?"

"Now, don't worry – I know he's a _demon_ , of course, but he only wanted to talk. Given we share a connection, I didn't think it was such a odd thing for him to ask, now that he knows I'm not exactly on speaking terms with my side at the moment. He's here on temporary truce; your lot doesn't know about it."

Oh, Crowley was pretty sure they _did_ , at least on some level; they'd just pretend not to have if this nincompoop's mission went sour. Then they'd claim he was working entirely on his own.

" _Aziraphale_ ," said Crowley, slowly and darkly, "you need to listen to me; I don't know which bastard is in your bookshop right now – but it's not _him_. It's not the archangel you never got to meet."

The angel made a frustrated snorting noise into the phone. " _Really_ , now. If you don't know which one it is, how–"

"I just know he's not." His hands were shaking; he wedged the handset between his shoulder and face and tried to will them to steady themselves. "You need to get this demon out of your shop _right now_. If he knows you're talking to me, he will know he doesn't have much time. Don't turn your back on him for a second, don't look away – don't even _blink_."

"Crowley..." Something new was in Aziraphale's voice, richer than mere annoyance, something trying to settle on what his friend _meant_. "How do you _know_? How do you know he's not who he says he is?"

"Because _I_ am, for heaven's sake!" The words burst out, sharp as shrapnel.

If the inflection had been on the word 'am,' and if he hadn't shown his emotion by accidentally invoking heaven in his exclamation, Crowley could have taken those words back just as readily, but he knew Aziraphale was far too clever to have missed it.

The other end fell silent.

"Angel?"

Nothing.

"Okay, you're probably in shock or whatever – just... Just do me a favour." Crowley felt heat and numbness spreading through his body, prickling under his skin; he felt as though he'd just entered a church and decided to have a lie down on the scalding floor. He was going to be sick, probably, but he had to keep it together for Aziraphale's sake. "If you can hear me, if he hasn't done anything to you, tap the receiver twice."

_Tap. Tap._

"Right. Put him on. Keep looking at him and hand the sorry son of a bitch the phone."

"Hello, this is _Crowley_ , right? M25 guy? You invented the selfie?" The sorry son of a bitch sounded jittery, and Crowley immediately recognised the voice. "How are things? Love your work, by the way."

The last time he'd heard this voice, it had been talking about the view in Heaven verses 'the basement'.

Honestly, Crowley was a little relieved. Given all the options, he'd feared much worse than a mere buffoon so easily dealt with. This disposable sucker was, overall, a pretty big wimp. He was fairly certain Hastur had actually killed him twice before. He was back, though. Again. Sometimes Crowley thought if the world _was_ ever successfully ended, all that would be left in the burned-out pile of goo where the earth previously hung would be Cher, several happy cockroaches, and _this_ sodding muppet.

"Oh, _you_ again," snarled Crowley; "this should be fun."

"Look, I didn't want any trouble. I was just–"

"Shut up, you _prat_. I don't want to know why you're impersonating me, or what you thought you'd gain entering my flat uninvited – just leave the page of paperwork you stole with the angel and get out, because if you're still there when I show up, what I did to Ligur will be nothing compared to the exquisite pain I put _you_ through. Understand?"

In a voice of forced bravado, the disposable demon remarked that he'd always wanted to hit an angel, and Crowley was a minimum of five minutes away, so didn't he imagine he could do quite a lot of damage to the smug principality before he ever arrived? And who was going to back up Crowley or Aziraphale if either of them complained about it?

"No," said Crowley, almost blithely, nearly sounding as if he were _yawning_. "That's not going to happen."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know Aziraphale." He paused, glancing down at his watch. "One... Two..."

"W-why are you counting?"

" _Three_."

Silence.

"Am I right?"

"Oof." _Thud._

"You hit him with a book; right, angel?"

"Mmm-hmm." _Click._

Crowley closed his eyes. Aziraphale was angry with him. Safe, but furious. His hands steady now, he put the handset down, reached for his keys, and walked towards the door.

* * *

"But I _didn't_!" the disposable demon was crying as two police officers dragged him out of the bookshop. "It's not fair! I wasn't trying to rob the place – he's _lying_!"

Aziraphale, leaning in the doorway, smiled – a brittle, innocent, pitiful, oh-so-tired smile – at the two officers, who immediately concluded – from the soft impression he gave off – it had, perhaps, been some sort of botched hate crime against the shop owner.

"Oi, mates, don't I get a phone call or something? _Ow_!"

The sky above the shop was leaden and the air was nippy and smoggy. A few stray, early snowflakes fell, landing on the dark hair and long eyelashes of the protesting demon with the bruised face.

Just as the police officers had gotten him into the back of their car and driven off, the Bentley sped into their vacated spot directly in front of the bookshop.

Still in the doorway, Aziraphale shivered and averted his eyes.

Crowley got out and walked over to him. "You're okay?"

He nodded, biting his lower lip and not looking directly at the demon.

"Angel..."

"Were you _ever_ going to tell me?"

He could have lied – but he didn't – it wasn't something he liked doing, not to Aziraphale. "No."

The angel's voice was small. "Why didn't you want me? I would never have left your side." He looked at him now. "Why couldn't you just _wait_? Why did you have to go with Lucifer?"

"Angel, they _never_ told me you were coming – I'm so sorry." He let out a pained sigh. "All I knew was that I slept – mind you, the _only_ time I ever slept as an angel – and when I woke up one of my primaries was gone. No one ever told me what it was _for_."

Aziraphale's expression was – though still wary and drained – forgiving now. "I suppose I can't blame you, then." It wasn't as though Crowley had deliberately rejected him, not if he hadn't _known_.

"Are you disappointed?" Crowley asked, his eyes anxious behind his sunglasses.

"Of course not." The angel's face melted, all warmth and tenderness now. "Are _you_?"

He shook his head, exhaling heavily through his nose, mouth pursed. "Not even a little."

"I mean," stammered Aziraphale, wringing his hands, "you wouldn't think we'd be likely to get along – certainly wouldn't have picked one another out, I'm sure – so it's...strange... So strange that we..." – he unlinked his hands and made a rolling motion with one – "Well, that we're actually... You know."

Crowley nodded. He knew. It was _inevitable_. God had dealt them both a very odd hand.

The snow was falling down heavier now – the flakes no longer tiny, insubstantial things but, rather, crystallized into lacy patterns as big as silver dollars. The flakes were quickly accumulating around the collar of Crowley's black suit-jacket and on the broad shoulders of Aziraphale's camel hair coat.

After brushing a dusting of flakes off his lapel, Aziraphale reached behind himself and held the door open, looking at his best friend with an expression of pure lovingness. "Well," he concluded, "it's no good standing out here – it's getting rather damp." His gleaming manicured fingers made a gesture towards the inside of the shop, lit sweetly golden against the grey contrast of the outside street. "After you."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Yes, the "Blink" reference was 100% intentional.


End file.
